


Insomnia

by kihadu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Hawke, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihadu/pseuds/kihadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran lingers after his initial meeting with Hawke, interested in the tattooed elf who travels with her. </p><p>Working with an asexual Female Hawke, and written because there truly is not enough Zevris in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first few chapters were posted first on tumblr, but are here with some revisions.

Fenris never really got the idea of reclining. He sits tense and poised, even now with a bottle in his hand and wine on his tongue. He is clearly drunk, but he is not relaxed. Hawke notices this, and is bothered by this, but she does not comment on it. Instead, she talks, because Fenris will not. She is Fenris’ only friend and he rarely says more then five words to her in an entire day, and somehow Hawke does not mind. This is disconcerting, another fact that Hawke notices but does not comment on.

She does not talk incessantly because Fenris would never stand for that, and nor does she allow her words to lack importance, because Fenris would not appreciate that. She talks about her mother and her sister, and in more muted tones, about her brother and father.

She does not talk about Kirkwall.

Fenris notices that. He notices that everyone has a resigned sort of attitude towards Kirkwall, an anger at their lives that they have ended up here, and disappointment knowing that they cannot change it.

He takes a long, slow drink. He does not like Kirkwall either. Perhaps it is better here than anywhere else he has been, but he is certain there must be better places out there.

He’s glad for the company of Hawke, something to occupy the hours after sunset, but he is also glad when Hawke takes her leave, dog trotting beside her.

Fenris feels the heavy weight of his past dragging behind him as he goes to a room where he sits down away from the windows and waits for dawn. He does not intend to sleep, and when he closes his eyes it is only because of the alcohol.

His lyrium veins are a constant burn beneath his skin, and everyday he resists the urge to claw them out.

.

When he meets Zevran he greets him with a stern frown to his face, and looks away. He finds he cannot stand elves, because no matter how free they think they are they are all like him, running from their past. He hates elves because of what they remind him of, and he hates humans because what they have done. If pressed he might say that dwarfs are alright, he supposes, so long as the ones he has met are not indicative of the race as a whole. He only likes the Qunari, but even there it would be more fair to say he understands rather than likes them.

(He likes Hawke, but he doesn’t know why and the emotion sits uncomfortably with him. He ignored that at first, as though somehow it would go away. It did not. It has not, not for years, and he is resigned to this.)

Zevran discomforts him even more than for his mere elfishness. He is a slave who thinks he is not, and he forces the humans to treat him as an equal when they all know that he is an elf: he is lesser, he is not worthy.

Fenris is grateful when Zevran leaves with Isabela, and is more grateful to return to the dank, damp halls where he can drink his wine until he is almost able to sleep without pain.

.

He meets Zevran again when he is trying to escape the city by taking a walk. Neither the coast nor the mountain are much reprieve, but he cannot stand the place that houses Anders any longer so he straps his sword to his back and marches out. He hopes he can find someone to kill. He would like that. He needs that, perhaps.

Zevran, apparently, has had the same idea, though Fenris thought the elf was leaving.

“You,” he says.

“Me. What are you doing out, and without your lovely mistress?”

“She is not mine,” says Fenris harshly. “And I am not hers.”

“My apologies,” says Zevran. They look at each other. Fenris is unwilling to walk away as long as Zevran is standing there. He does not trust him, and does not dare turn his back. Eventually Zevran chuckles. “Do you wish to eat something? Do you eat? I am finding some wood to cook my lunch, if you would like to join me.”

Fenris does not, but for some reason he gives a slight incline of his head - he would have argued it away as a twitch, or a shiver at the wind, except that Fenris has had years learning how to stand still and stoic for hours. There is no excuse. He follows the other elf.

“So,” says Zevran. Fenris throws him a glare that indicates clearly he wants this to be a kind sharing of food and nothing more. Zevran has noticed that he refused to taste-test the meal, and would not let Zevran spoon some into a bowl. “You think I would poison you.”

“You think I would trust you,” Fenris comments dryly. He waits for Zevran to take a mouthful and swallow before he picks up his spoon. Even then, he wipes the small metal utensil on his pants first.

“Touche,” says Zevran. “But I think you will find I am a very trustworthy person. If I say I will not kill you I probably will not.” Fenris looks at him. “Ah, you have a point,” Zevran says, though Fenris has said nothing. “How is this: I promise I will not kill you. In fact, I will go so far as to say, I will warn you before I break that promise, if indeed I ever do.”

Fenris grunts.

“You are not the talkative sort. Isabela told me as much.” At Fenris’ glance he continues. “Isabela and I have a history, a good and long one, but I have not seen her since Ferelden. We had much to catch up. There is something comforting, I think, about returning to an old lover. A nice familiarity. It is not often I sleep with the same person twice. See,” he looks at Fenris. “I often kill them after we have had our fun.”

“A curious habit,” says Fenris, when it is clear that he is meant to have an opinion.

“Ah, the difficult life of a Crow.” Zevran grins, indicating that he doesn’t think it is all that difficult at all. “Though I suppose I did not kill Cousland either, and she was, hm,” Zevran puts his spoon in his mouth and draws it out again, slowly, until it is clean and shining with his saliva. Fenris is caught up in that action, not particularly listening to the praises Zevran is making of the Hero of Ferelden.

“Perhaps I am getting less blood thirsty as I get older. What do you think, hm?”

Fenris remembers how Zevran looked when he had first met him, bloodied and shining from the sweat of fighting. He gives Zevran a very particular look, and the other elf laughs out loud.

“You have a very beautiful face. Very expressive.” At the compliment Fenris’ face goes stony, and he looks away. It is not exactly embarrassment, or anger, but he does not know how to respond to comments given so freely. With the magistars it was simple: say nothing, but freed people expect him to talk, and he does not know how to do that. Conversation was never something a slave needed to be trained in, and he so hates being unskilled at something.

But Zevran, after a pause, keeps talking. He tells Fenris things he didn’t ask and doesn’t really care about, but they’re interesting to hear. They’re not about Ferelden, particularly, because Zevran has lived a life after the Blight. When Fenris is finished eating Zevran takes the plate and they both stand. The fire is mostly ashes in dust, now.

“Thank you for the meal,” Fenris says stiffly. Zevran gives a soft smile.

“We elves should stick together,” he says. “There’s already enough after us.”

Fenris’ mouth twitches in a frown. He knows he should be polite and offer Zevran something in return for the food he has been given, but he merely nods and and takes his leave. Later, he tells himself that he did not need to offer. Zevran gave freely, and that was his choice, and one should not expect something in return for what one shares. Still, he feels guilty, and later, when he is selecting a bottle to drink he does not drink the first he picks up because he thinks, perhaps, that Zevran would like that brand.

.

Fenris is not in the habit of receiving guests, a fact that Zevran guesses easily. Anyway, the assassin is not in the habit of being a guest, unless he is going to receive the pleasure of sex and the joy of murdering, so they do not see each other for a little while. That time is spent, for each, in their usual manner.

Fenris follows Hawke occasionally, and avoids everyone else. Anders is chief amongst those who annoy him, but Fenris is irritated easily, and even Hawke’s dog is not always in his good graces. He likes Donnic, though, and he and Donnic will play cards together. Sometimes the other guardsmen join them, sometimes they do not, and they drink freely and do not demand that Fenris hold up his end of the conversation.

Zevran wanders, steals, flirts, and, when he must, stabs a few people as neatly as he can. But if he is not being paid for it he is less inclined to kill, nor is he in the mood to grapple with authority. Although, if Aveline were to ask nicely, he considers, perhaps he would change his mind. 


	2. Chapter 2

Zevran is meeting with Isabela. It is, in fact, only to meet with her, and though her shirt is very short and her boots are very tall he resists temptation and sits with her at her table in The Hanged Man to drink and play cards.

Fenris walks in somewhere near midday to buy a meal. Isabela shakes her head.

“A dozen decent vendors upstairs and he comes here to buy old stew with eyes in it.”

“Perhaps he likes food that blinks back,” says Zevran. Fenris is sitting at the bar ignoring them, though he has certainly seen them. Fenris sees everything, but he is not unusual in that. Although Kirkwall is not quite Antiva there is enough death going around that people learn to keep their eye out for it.

A black-haired elf came in then, and sat down at a table with an elf in a dirty green tunic, and the movement catches Zevran’s eye.

“That’s one of Merrill’s friends. Tasthic, his name is.”

“A friend, or a friend?” asks Zevran with a carefully annunciated leer.

“Have you met Merrill?” asks Isabela.

“She’s scary-fierce and very pretty,” Zevran muses. “I’m sure she could be fun.” They look at Tasthic. “I’m sure he could be fun.”

“You think everyone could be fun.”

“That’s because most people are. Sometimes merely to tease, sometimes to fight with, fight against, drink with,” he lifts his cup and takes a gulp.

“Or to have sex with.” Isabela grins, and Zevran grins back.

Zevran looks at Fenris, who is resolutely ignoring them. “So,” he says, making no attempt to lower his voice. He knows that the half dozen elves in the place can easily hear him, but in return he can easily hear them. “Have you been with him?”

“Mr Broody Elf? No. I don’t know if anyone has.”

“Not even the handsome Hawke?”

“She’s not really interested in anything.” She looks over at Fenris, and lowers her voice. “He was a slave.”

“Ah,” says Zevran, though he is not surprised. Elves rarely have the happiest stories behind them. He looks at Fenris a little sorrowfully, who is looking at them out of the corner of his eye as he tears his bread and dips it into his bowl. “Did he buy his freedom?”

Isabela shakes her head. “He escaped.”

“Brave man,” says Zevran approvingly. “Though I admire any slave for merely surviving.” He does not think back on his own childhood; the memories are too miserable, and he has better things to worry about.

Fenris lingers, toying with his food. Zevran would like to think it is because of him, but suspects that it is rather that Fenris has little to occupy his time. Eventually Isabela rises and says that she must visit Merrill. Although the young elf would be entertaining, Zevran declines. He debates taking his chances of letting Fenris approach him at the table, but decides against that and walks out into the murky afternoon air. He leans against the wall, and watches the people. He does not like Kirkwall, and if the mystery of Fenris were not here he thinks he would have already left.

He leans against the wall, and then tells himself that if Fenris does not find him before the sun disappears behind a particular building, he will leave the city, and he will forget the elf. There are, after all, many pretty faces, and many people with secrets behind them. As intriguing as Fenris is, there are no doubt many others like him. Just as he is thinking that the door opens and there is a movement beside him.

“It astonishes me that your hair is so white while this city sinks into muck.” Zevran turns to look at Fenris, a lazy grin on his face. “I was hoping I would see you again.”

“You were waiting for me.”

“I would have left in,” Zevran looks at the sky. “A few minutes. I presume you were in there debating on how to escape me. If you would have me leave, I shall. I am persistent, but only so long as I am welcome.”

Fenris looks at the sky, and clears his throat. “You are welcome.” Zevran pushes himself off the wall with a grin.

“Excellent. Shall we steal something, or do you already have wine at your house?”

“It is not my house,” says Fenris. Zevran grins.

“Then I take it that it is not your wine we shall be drinking.”

“No,” says Fenris shortly. “It is not.” He isn’t entirely sure how he had managed to invite the other elf to the mansion, but Zevran falls into step beside him easily, and Fenris finds that he is not completely irritated. He is tired, though, and the lyrium hurts worse than he is used to. He doesn’t particularly listen to whatever the other elf is chattering about, and looks ahead. He is the first to see the commotion around a corner. He holds out an arm, stopping Zevran short.

“Is there a way around?” asks Zevran. If he got involved in every fracas he comes across he would never stop fighting.

Fenris is about to show him the way when he sees a flash of familiar dark hair.

“Hawke,” he breathes. He draws his sword and runs in, leaving Zevran the opportunity to admire him for just a second before dashing in himself. With the two elves the fight is quickly over, and Hawke drops to her knees and begins rifling through the fallen bodies. Having no qualms about that sort of thing Zevran helps her, and only notices after he has straightened up that Fenris is standing with a decided lean to him.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“You’re bleeding!” Bethany cries in alarm. Fenris nods. He looks tired for just a second, then his features goes stony and grim. Zevran drops to his knees in front of Fenris.

“I did not think I would be doing this so soon,” he murmurs. Fenris’ ears go pink, and he glares down. Zevran carefully pulls back the cut fabric of Fenris’ pants and looks at the wound without touching it. “I am afraid you will need stitches, and I would recommend you clean it well first. Who knows when these alley thugs last washed their blades.”

“Go downstairs,” Hawke recommends, blowing hair from her face. “Anders will have you fixed in no time.”

“I would,” says Bethany, but does not finish her sentence. They are in the open, and Bethany is not very good with healing spells. Worse, she is a little afraid of Fenris, and would not complete the task well with him glaring down at her.

“No,” snaps Fenris. “I will not suffer that man if I am still able to walk.”

“At least allow him to give you some needle and thread,” wheedles Hawke.

“I said no.”

Hawke holds up her hands in surrender. Unlike Bethany she seems unfazed by Fenris’ manner.

“Then please clean it well. I take it you are just leaving The Hanged Man?”

“Yes,” says Fenris.

“Ah, well, we are going there now. Glad to see you, Zevran.” She holds out her hand, and shakes his firmly, then whistles to her dog and marches away.

“Are you able to walk?” asks Zevran. “It is a very deep cut.”

“I am sure I will be fine,” says Fenris sternly. He takes a step and nearly crumbles, but does not reach out for support. Zevran walks close, but Fenris does not lean on him, and they make their way with painful slowness to Hightown.

“There is oil in the kitchen,” says Fenris.

“You should sit,” says Zevran, watching Fenris carefully. The other elf ignores him, so Zevran goes to find the oil and a clean pan in which to heat it. When he comes back there is a fire going, and Fenris has sat down in front of it. His armour is piled unceremoniously beside him.

Fenris glares at him, daring him to make a comment about the state of the mansion or any other number of things, but Zevran says nothing and sits on the rug beside him.

“I hate to make you uncomfortable, but I fear you will need to take those pants off if we are going to do this.”

“We, is it?”

“You did not send me away,” says Zevran simply. He puts the oil into the pan and hangs it over the flames. Fenris grunts, and shifts on his hands. Awkwardly he pulls his pants down his legs, wincing without noise as he peels the material from his bloodied thigh.

“No comment, elf?” asks Fenris, when his tattooed legs are bare.

“I would not wish to make you uncomfortable,” states Zevran simply. “Do you have water?”

He cleans the wound quickly and simply. He has done this sort of thing many times before, both on himself and on others, and he knows better than to linger merely for the sake of touching smooth skin.

When the oil is hot he threads a needle and with tweezers draws it through the oil, sterilising it. With steady hands he knits the skin together.

“This would be better if a mage had healed you,” he says finally, tying off the thread and cutting it with the sharp end of one of his daggers.

“I do not like mage healing,” says Fenris. He deliberates, and then adds, “the magic causes me pain.”

“The markings,” says Zevran, and though he has noticed that Fenris is tense, trying to avoid having his skin touched for any longer than it must be, he stretches out his hand unconsciously to brush the curving marks. “Sorry,” he says, and busies himself with cleaning up.

“You may,” says Fenris softly. He would never offer, except that normally he finds himself being prodded without warning, or, if the person does bother to ask, it is a question said even as their hand reaches forward. That Zevran pulled back without expecting permission is something. “If you wish. You are no mage, and it would not hurt any more than it does.”

Zevran frowns, and does not try to touch him. “They hurt already?”

“Like fire under my skin.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I think they cause me more pain for what they remind me of than what they are, and either way I have had years to become used to them.”

“But you do not like to be touched.”

“Not by mages,” says Fenris, a little hesitantly. “I am unused to being touched by anyone else, and cannot say.”

“Not at all? I feel Isabela would very much enjoy it.”

Fenris chuckles. “Isabela is very free with her desires.”

“As am I,” protests Zevran. “Do you want to feel special, is that it? Do you want to be ‘The One’?”

“You tease me,” says Fenris, shaking his head and laughing a little. He seems more relaxed, so Zevran stops feeling guilty for staring so freely at the long, muscled legs. “I have no understanding of that sort of relationship. No, I am too,” he frowns, and shakes his head again.

“Too caught up in your own mess to invite another in?” suggests Zevran softly. “I understand that feeling. Following the Blight,” he, too, lapses into silence.

“You knew the Hero of Ferelden?” prompts Fenris.

“Intimately,” smiles Zevran, but the smile is tired. “It took me some time before I was able to return to being the sort of person I am now.” He slaps Fenris’ calf lightly. “Enough of that. Find some pants without holes and I will find us some wine. We are both too pretty to be caught up on sad memories.”


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran does not try to get to know Hawke. He has no particular reason for this, except that he is wary of those who automatically draw others to them. Hawke is a leader. She is powerful, and calm, a rock against the storm of the world. Zevran is always unnerved by stabilising forces. Still, he is not so unnerved that he avoids her, and when he goes to meet with Isabela and finds her sitting at a table with Hawke and several others he smiles easily and takes a seat.

“What are we doing?”

“Telling stories,” said the dwarf. “Got any good ones?”

“I met a man on the road from Antiva who fell in love with a horse,” says Zevran.

“Like Fereldens with their dogs?” asks Varric slyly. Hawke rolls her eyes good naturedly.

“Refused to sit on it, said it was his husband, and that he could never leave it. Bought it the best food and made sure it had the finest of rugs. But, as happens, the horse met a mare. This gentleman - we will call him that, although he was not - found them together and was filled with such a jealous envy that he set the stable on fire.”

Merrill made a little noise of shock. “What then?”

“Well, then, his horse ran out, and the mare ran out, but a prize race stallion belonging to a particularly aggressive merchant did not. So the merchant killed the man and took his horse as compensation. Won seven races and fifteen gold, then one day he dropped dead at the start line.” Merrill stares at him, wide-eyed.

Isabela chuckles. “You always tell a story with a punchline.”

“And all my stories are true,” adds Zevran. “Unlike yours.” He leans forward and in a mock-whisper says, “take two inches off whatever she says.”

“Careful,” teases Isabela. “That would make you very average.”

“Me? Perhaps your memory is hazy, my dear. I am many things but average is not one of them.”

“Oh, I see I arrived at the right moment,” says Anders, appearing at the top of the stairway.

“And I at the wrong one,” says Fenris behind him. Zevran snaps his eyes around at him. “Mage.”

“Elf,” says Anders. There is a bristling energy in the air. Hawke sits up.

“I need a drink,” she says. “Fenris, come.”

“We have met, have we not?” asks Anders, looking carefully at Zevran.

“Zevran Arainai. You are Anders.”

“We have met,” Anders realises. “My apologies.”

“Have you been sleeping?” asks Isabela concernedly.

“You look like you caught a brick to the face,” Varric agrees. Anders passes a hand over his eyes.

“I slept...” He tries to remember. “Sometime. There are too many sick people,” he says. He sits heavily. “Not enough time. What do you do, again? Are you part of this merry band? One of Hawke’s followers?”

“I kill people for money.”

“Oh.” Anders nods seriously. “Sorry. Pardon?”

“You want someone dead, you tell me, I kill them, you give me money.”

Anders considers this for a long, solemn moment. “How much for Fenris?”

“Anders!” Isabela slaps his shoulder. “Do not say such things.”

“Hawke would have your head on a platter,” agrees Varric.

“She doesn’t love him so much. Does she?” asks Anders. “Surely she doesn’t.”

“She’s soft on him, as much as she ever gets,” says Varric.

“What are we talking about?” asks the woman herself, cheerfully setting down two great jugs of beer. Fenris puts down a stack of cups with slightly less enthusiasm, and takes the chair beside Zevran, opposite Anders. Zevran tries to smile at the elf, but the elf is too busy glaring at Anders. Hawke sits back down at the end of the table by Varric.

“We’re talking about you,” says Merrill.

“Oh?” she asks curiously, as she begins to pour the beer.

“How you love Fenris.”

“Oh.” It was an uncaring noise, as though they had mentioned they were discussing the weather and she already knew the forecast. She slides the cups down the table, and Zevran catches one and passes it to Fenris. He is careful to make sure their fingers touch.

“You don’t, do you?” asks Anders.

“Drink your beer,” snaps Hawke, but it’s a friendly sort of snapping. “I do. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. He’s a good man.”

Zevran looks at Fenris, who is looking at Hawke in surprise.

“He isn’t very nice,” says Merrill doubtfully. “He is pretty. Is he,” she leans forward. “Something like what Isabela talks about?”

There’s a snort from Isabela, and another from Hawke.

“Nothing so lewd, my dear. You know I’m not like that.”

“Not like what?” asks Zevran.

“Into sex.” She juts her chin out and looks at him defiantly.

“Huh,” says Zevran.

“No comment from the Crow?”

“I think you are missing out, but there are those who think I am missing out for disliking the taste of fish. Each to their own. Anyway, I agree.” Hawke lifts an eyebrow. “Fenris is a good man.” Zevran does not let himself look to the side, but he can see gauntleted hands tight around a cup of beer. “He should have someone loving him.”

“Hm,” says Hawke. “I like you. I thought I would not, but I think I do.”

“Most come to that conclusion,” says Zevran. “That, or they try to kill me.”

“Happens to you often, does it?” asks Fenris in a low voice.

“Quite often, it’s very disappointing. I think I have a charming face and then these people see fit to rid me of it.”

“It will be tragic if they ever succeed,” says Isabela seriously.

Zevran chuckles, and beside him he can hear a softly stated, “indeed.”

 

.

 

He walks between Hawke and Fenris, leaving Lowtown behind.

“Where are you staying?” asks Hawke.

“The Hanged Man is not the only residence in the city, and Fenris’ mansion is not the only empty house.”

“You are squatting?” asks Hawke. She turns with a giddy grin. “Where? Or must you not show us? Is that a Crow thing?”

“Neither of you have tried to kill me,” he says. “Perhaps I can trust you.” He leads them up a path neither of them are very familiar with, Hawke looking around curiously, and then they are in an alleyway. Zevran runs forward, steps against the wall, and then jumps, catching hold of a windowsill and using it to launch himself onto the roof of a building.

“Come on,” he says. He disappears over the tiles, leaving Fenris and Hawke to look at each other.

“You first,” says Fenris. Hawke gives a small laugh. She is not quite so agile as Zevran but she makes it easily, and then pauses to offer a hand to Fenris. He accepts it willingly.

“You are in a good mood tonight,” Hawke comments.

“He wasn’t before,” says Zevran.

“It’s Anders. They don’t get along.”

“He’s a mage,” says Fenris, but the words don’t have the same bite to them as they usually do. Hawke is right, he is in a better mood. Being away from Anders is one thing, but being between Hawke and Zevran is another. He remembers how easily Hawke said she loves him, and feels a little dizzy from it.

“He’s almost smiling,” says Hawke in a loud whisper. “Don’t say anything, you’ll break it.”

“I can hear you,” he says, pressing his lips together.

“Do you want to see my stolen house or not?” Zevran runs and jumps across the rooftops, and then, all in a sudden, disappears. Fenris looks at Hawke, who shrugs, and they chase after him. They land heavily in the courtyard beside him.

“Where is this?” asks Hawke. It’s dark, and except for their eyes catching the glint of the moon none of them can see anything.

“Just a moment,” says Zevran. There’s noises, and then a match strikes and a lantern is lit. Zevran opens a door and leads them into a mansion. It is in much better repair than Fenris’, and different to Hawke’s. There are books and curtains, and much of the furniture is carefully covered with great white sheets.

“I have asked around,” he says, going to light some of the other lights. “It seems the owners have gone travelling to Orlais, with no return date in mind. Give me a minute,” he says.

Hawke looks in wonder at the awnings. Fenris watches her, then steps close.

“You say you love me.”

“I do.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Hawke sighs and turns to face him. “It means I love you.”

“I do not like being made a fool of,” he says. It’s a warning, and a memory. He hates the way that Isabela and Varric banter about him as though he is not there, as though he does not matter. He hates being laughed at, he hates the bets they make about him.

“It is not me making you anything. It is only love.”

“You did not tell me,” he accuses.

“Did I need to?” she asks simply.

“What do you expect from me?”

“Your friendship.”

“And?” he prompts. He’s thinking of Isabela. She scorns love, but she talks so much of making it that Fenris isn’t sure there is really a difference.

“I ask nothing of you except your friendship, Fenris, and not even that if you cannot give it. I am not like other people, and I don’t want you in my bed.” He is about to demand she explain herself when Zevran returns. He has several dusty bottles of wine, and a few glasses.

“Grab a lantern,” he says, not knowing what he is interrupting. He leads them through the big rooms to one that he has clearly made his own. There is a bed in one corner, a nest of blankets and pillows on top of it. They start in the chairs by the fire, and end sitting in the nest, laughing and sloshing wine. Fenris does not laugh, he chuckles a little, feeling more at ease than he did several weeks before when he did not know Zevran. He does not quite trust Hawke, nor does he completely trust Zevran, but neither of them try to sit too close to him, and they do not comment on how he still flinches at strange noises and refuses to sit unless he can see both the window and the door in the same blink of his eyes.

They are telling stories of Ferelden, and Fenris cannot begrudge Hawke that. With the fire flicking a warm glow over them and the wine pooling comfortably in his veins he feels as though the troubles of the world are continents away, planets away. He sighs, and almost leans back against the wall. He feels eyes are on him.

“Are you alright?” asks Zevran. “You closed your eyes for a minute there.”

“Tired,” he mutters, because it seems a reasonable excuse that other people would accept, though for him it is not, not at all. He doesn’t sleep around other people. When they are away from the city and camping in a group he takes every watch.

“If you would like to sleep there are plenty of beds around. Or, of course, there will be room beside me,” he adds, patting the long pillow that is half over his lap.

“I am not that tired,” he backtracks. “I have just been sitting for too long.”

“Should we walk around the house?”

“No,” grumbles Hawke. “I’m warm.” Zevran nudges her with a bare foot, and she glares over the covers at him. “If you need to move then move,” she says to Fenris. “Go for a walk. Get me some juice. Or an orange. I miss oranges,” she sighs.

“Ferelden does have a better range of foods than Kirkwall,” Zevran agrees.

“Have you been everywhere?” asks Fenris, sitting up and wiggling his toes to bring some life back into his legs. Hawke, slightly drunk and giggly, pokes at the moving material.

“Most everywhere, probably.”

“I would like to travel, I think,” says Hawke. “I and my dog against the world, like the heroes in stories. What was the Hero of Ferelden like?”

Zevran smiles, a little sad. “She was pretty, and deadly. I have never seen a woman better with a bow than she. She’d tease anyone foolish enough to listen, and she did this wonderful thing with her tongue-”

“Zev!” cries Hawke.

“And her ears.” Zevran gives a small sigh. “Fenris, perhaps you will agree with me on this. I find humans do not have the same relationship with their ears as we do - she had the most beautiful ears I have seen in, well, until I came to Kirkwall, perhaps.”

“You were lovers,” says Hawke.

“We were, though her heart was elsewhere.” He takes a drink, then shakes his head. “That story becomes too maudlin, and Fenris looks about ready to sleep.”

He is not. He had been examining Zevran’s ears, trying to figure if what the other elf said was true. Zevran lifted a hand and curled his hair behind one, and Fenris followed the motion. He found Isabela attractive, and Hawke, and neither had elvish ears. Merrill he found irritating, and could not consider her looks even in an academic sense, but Zevran’s ears… He thinks perhaps he would not mind being the one pushing hair back behind them, if only so his fingertips could graze that skin.

Zevran catches his eye, some meaning there in that gaze that Fenris doesn’t understand, and is too drunk to interpret. Hawke speaks, and Zevran laughs and turns to look at her, leaving Fenris alone with his thoughts.

.

Zevran wakes up first, but only because Fenris, true to his habits, does not sleep. He has found a window seat and sits curled up with a wine bottle filled up with water looking out over the city. Zevran comes over and touches his back without thinking about it. Fenris flinches, then turns to look at him. He leans against Zevran’s chest, tired and hung-over. He hates himself. He hates that he cannot sleep around people, he hates that he is in pain all the time. He hates the city.

But he does not hate Zevran, so he lets the elf put an arm around him, and he leans into the touch.


	4. Chapter 4

“Is there a reason for it?” asks Zevran. They are eating breakfast, a mix of berries and oats, which Hawke said was too close to what horses eat and she’d gone home across the rooftops for a meal cooked by Orana. “Not sleeping, I mean.”

Fenris tenses. He has been tense for a while now, remembering the night before but forgetting how safe he felt. The alcohol has done that, and the morning light has done that. They sit in the big stolen kitchen, Zevran talking in murmurs and Fenris not talking at all.

“I understand not feeling safe, but even then you must sleep sometimes. And drinking would only lessen your reaction time and so make you less able to strike an enemy. Is it the pain of your markings?”

Fenris thought at first that Zevran is talking only because Fenris says nothing, but then realises that Zevran is giving him a chance to answer without words. He gives a small nod.

“But you do sleep sometimes, do you not? You are still a fierce fighter. Or was this only tonight, in a strange house?”

Again, he hesitates a long time before finally answering. “I sleep a little better in the mansion, but not much.”

“The mansion is not your home.”

“No,” says Fenris. He doesn’t know what home would entail; he is certain he has never had one.

“Do you sleep better with someone else?”

“No.”

“Not even Hawke?”

In the past Fenris has not even tried to sleep around her. He cannot sleep alone and does not see why he would feel safer around someone else.

. 

That night he goes to Hawke’s house. She is eating dinner with her mother, and at the sight of him another place is set and he is made to eat. He rarely eats a proper meal. The vendors in Hightown hate him for his ears and the food in Lowtown sits too heavy in his stomach.

“Hawke,” he says, dinner cleared, her mother politely engaged in sorting through mail down the other end of the table.

“You look dreadful,” she says, honestly. He knows. He feels it. He spent the day with Zevran, and as delightful as that was - and how unusual it is that he found pleasure in spending time with someone who isn’t Hawke, and even with her he isn’t used to feeling pleasure and it was only that Hawke said she loves him that made him realise that’s what he’s feeling - despite all of that, he is tired. He has not slept more than a few hours at a time for a long time. His sword is a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t feel safe, not anywhere, like the roof is going to crumble or a sword is going to stab through his ribs, or any number of things.

He ate dinner silently, and she looked at him then like she is looking at him now.

“I don’t need your pity,” he says.

“This is not pity,” she says. “Mother, I am going upstairs. Good night.”

Leandra looks at them both, and perhaps is about to say something except Hawke shakes her head slightly, so instead she only bids them both goodnight.

.

She locks the door. She crosses the room and tests the window, mostly to show him that it, too, is locked. Then she places one of her long daggers on the table. Her dog is sitting to attention, his ears pricked.

“Sleep,” she says. “Please, I am afraid you will fall down if you do not sleep.”

“I can’t,” he says. “There’s - Danarius. I cannot. I will not impose,” he finishes resolutely.

She chuckles. “Sit,” she touches the armour plate across his chest, pushing him onto the mattress. “You are safe here. This room,” she points at the walls. “Nothing gets in here. I have my dog, my daggers. There are traps across all the windows and the door is locked. I will keep watch.”

“You need your sleep,” he protests, but it’s feeble.

“Take off your armour,” she says. She makes no move to help him.

There is a knock at the door. She looks at Fenris, who gives a tired nod and she unlocks the door.

“Zevran,” she looks surprised. “I, uh. Are you here to see Fen?”

“I had hoped he would be here; I went to the mansion and could not find him. I thought,” he holds up a bottle of wine, then looks at Fenris properly. “Sweet Maker, Fenris, you look dead where you sit. Here,” he pushes the bottle into Hawke’s hands and comes to kneel in front of Fenris. “Allow me.” He deftly undoes the buckles that hold Fenris’ armour to him. “I am too used to dangerous elves not caring for themselves,” he mutters, pulling Fenris’ breastplate off him. “Now, sleep, you blasted man. We will keep watch over you.”

Fenris tries to protest that it’s stupid, because he knows that Danarius will probably not come for him, and probably he could try sleeping alone in his mansion again, but Zevran glares him into silence and he lies down. It feels strange to stretch out like this, feeling heavy and almost drunk but without the taste of wine in his mouth.

“Hopefully he sleeps,” he hears Hawke say in a soft whisper.

“Hush,” says Zevran. “Elvish ears pick up the smallest of sounds.”

And then, there is nothing.

He sleeps.

 

.

 

“This is not a sensible solution,” says Fenris. It is three days later, and for two nights he has slept with Zevran and Hawke in the room. They have slept too, but one of them has always been awake, and with the dog and the locked doors he feels easier. He feels more alive than he can remember, and he hefts his sword with ease and drives it through the wretched face of a Darkspawn creature.

“What isn’t?” asks Merrill, dancing through bolts of electricity. The middle of a fight is not the best time to have a conversation, but if they stopped talking each time something attacked them probably they would never manage to say a word. Anders is less than happy with that sort of thing, but Hawke and Merrill talk and today, awake and alive, Fenris feels at ease with joining in.

“I don’t mind,” says Hawke. “Zev doesn’t mind.”

“Must you?” calls Anders. “To your right!” he adds in a loud yell. Fenris rushes forward and swings his sword. It slices through two bodies in a graceful arc, and he laughs.

“If it makes you feel easier we could just hunt him down,” there’s a shzing of steel on steel, and Hawke grunts with effort. “And slaughter him.”

“Ohh,” realises Merrill. “You’re talking about Fenris and his master.”

“Former,” growls Fenris. They seem to be all done and he hangs his sword on his back. There’s a bolt of lightning, and a clump behind him. He turns, and sees a body fallen. Merrill nods at it in cheerful satisfaction.

“If you moved out of that mansion,” says Hawke, but does not continue. He will not move, and it is not because he waits for Danarius. It is not home, but anywhere else is even less of a home, and although Hawke’s bed is comfortable without the extreme ache of tiredness he feels less inclined to find his way into her bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Zevran has not left the city. Nor has he so much as touched Fenris beyond that arm on his shoulder in his borrowed mansion some weeks previously. He feels strange because of it. Normally he would have consummated the relationship long before, or given up and moved on. He is outside the Rose, now, debating on going in. Even that is not a question he would usually consider. He is like Isabela in that he wants and he takes. He does not question.

“Gonna wait there long, honey?” calls a voice from a window above. He steps back and looks up.

“I haven’t decided, my lovely.”

“You should come up,” coaxes the woman. “We have everything you could want.”

“Perhaps,” he says, and realises that they do not have anything he wants.

.

The door to the mansion feels hollow, as though it has been eaten apart by termites.

He knocks twice, waits, then knocks again. He pushes the door open when there is still no response, and treads carefully into the house. Something squishes underfoot, and he looks down to see mushrooms growing on a mouldy rug. There’s a corpse piled on top of another corpse, and though they do not smell any longer the stench of them hangs in the stale air. Zevran has seen many things and been many places, and unlike Hawke he does not need to wonder how Fenris can manage to live in this place. He knows that Fenris cares only about being alive; he does not understand what it is like to live.

Zevran mounts the stairs, stepping carefully over the traps without setting them off.

Fenris is up and waiting, sword in hand, poised on his toes. Zevran gives a wry smile and dips his head in greeting.

“I knocked,” he says. “Did you not hear me?”

“Perhaps I did not want to be seen,” says Fenris. He is shaking slightly, the end of his sword glinting in the light. He lets it drop and it hits the stone tiles with a clank. He rests the hilt against the arm of a chair almost reverently, the action an odd contrast to his tense posture and scowling face.

“Did she send you?”

“She?” asks Zevran. The last woman he saw was the whore in the window of the Rose.

“Hawke.” Fenris’ voice is a growl, his face rigid with anger.

“No one sent me, my handsome elf,” says Zevran easily.

“I am not yours,” spits Fenris.

“No, but you are handsome,” returns Zevran easily.

“What do you want?”

“Ah, see. I went to the Rose,” Fenris’ eyes narrow, and Zevran gives a small smile. “It is not that sort of story, do not fear. I went to the Rose and the woman said they have everything I could want, and I thought, no, they do not, because they do not have you. So I came here.” Fenris blinks. Zevran takes a small step forward. “See, what I want most is you. And I thought that I would see what you think of that.”

“I killed Danarius today,” says Fenris. It is not the response that Zevran had wanted, but he nods.

“Hence you are in a mood. I can come back, if you would be alone.”

“I would not,” says Fenris. He turns on his heel, shakes his head and then turns back to Zevran. His face is a tangle of emotions. “I have no idea what I want. I thought I’d feel free with him dead but I feel as trapped as I always did. It’s this house,” snaps Fenris. “This, I am surrounded by him.” He drags the spikes of his gauntlet down the inside of his bicep, tearing at the lyrium veins. “How can I get rid of him?”

The words are almost a sob. Zevran steps forward and takes his hand, fingers on the soft skin of his palm avoiding the sharp, bloodied metal. Fenris growls and tries to turn, but Zevran catches him, puts a hand on Fenris’ face. “You must keep going. Find things you want to do and do them. Become selfish, so that you are alive only for your own happiness.”

Fenris shakes his head, pulling away from Zevran’s touch. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Zevran rolls his eyes, softening it with a gentle smile. “You like wine. You like murder. You like sleeping curled on your side. You like blue things. You like potato. Keep going. Try new things and see if you like them.”

“You would help me in this?”

“I want you,” Zevran says simply. “And I will help you in whatever way you desire.”

Fenris nods, and then a look passes over his face. It’s one Zevran has not seen there before, nervousness and anxiety mixed in fear, and then it’s tossed aside for sudden determination and Fenris pushes forward, shoves into Zevran’s chest and kisses him.

It’s sharp and bitter, teeth and tongue and stale wine without finesse. Zevran takes Fenris’ face in his hands, steadies him, and guides him softly, licking his tongue against Fenris’ and then pulling back to only lips, short kisses that Fenris tries to deepen and then copies. Zevran runs his tongue along Fenris’ lip, feels a hand pressing hard and sliding down his back.

“I take it I am to be your first test,” murmurs Zevran.

“Does that bother you?” asks Fenris.

Zevran smirks. “Not in the least.”

 

.

 

It’s strange, he thinks, because usually he’d be done and dusted and gone by now. ‘Get in, get off, get out’, as they say, though Zevran takes a little longer about it than that. Still, he is not the sort to linger, nor the sort to want to. He wakes and stretches and finds the sheets beside him warm but empty, and he sighs and rolls in them, breathing in the smell of Fenris, and the smell of them, together.

He rolls onto his back and looks at the roof. He’s happy, but he finds within himself no urge to leave. He wants to see Fenris, and Zevran, being in the habit of doing what he likes, gets up and goes to find him.

“Did you sleep?” he asks. Fenris is dressed and Zevran is not, and Fenris raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing. He is sitting in front of an empty fireplace, legs tucked up and his arms on his knees.

“A little,” says Fenris. “I feel much better than I did.”

“No bad dreams?” asks Zevran, arranging himself neatly on the couch beside him. It’s not a real question, at least, he doesn’t care about the answer, he merely asks it because it is what one does, one asks if the other has slept well.

“Some,” says Fenris. He looks into the ashes. “I did not sleep well. I thought to leave, but this is where I live.”

“Do you wish to talk about it?” asks Zevran. Fenris was not shy about being touched the night before, but he looks like a cat curled and ready to scratch, so he keeps his hands to himself. “There is no burden in the world you need carry alone.”

Fenris seems about to speak but then closes his mouth. Zevran gives him time, looking away to provide some kind of privacy.

“I can remember nothing from before I was a slave,” says Fenris in a slow, angry voice. “And last night I dreamed of memories.”

“Good, or bad?”

“Neither,” he growls. “Just ghosts in my dreams.” He passes a hand through his hair. “Maker, what do I do?”

“I am not the Maker, but I suggest you write them down, and if ever you dream again you write those down, too. It’s like a puzzle, and one day you will have the whole picture.”

Fenris laughs. The noise is harsh, like nails down a chalkboard. “I cannot write.”

“I can,” offers Zevran.

Fenris stares at him, then the incredulous look turns to a glare. “What are you still doing here? I did not think it was in your nature to linger after a night like that.”

“It isn’t.”

Fenris waves an irritated hand. “Then go!”

“I find I have no desire to leave you.”

“So I am to be followed as though you are a dog?”

“I would prefer to think of it as me being your friend, but if you would like me on a leash I’m sure we can figure something out.” He winks, to show what he means by that, and Fenris growls and looks away.

“You’re impossible.”

“You managed me well enough last night.”

“What do you want, Zevran?” Fenris snaps.

Zevran sobers, and swallows. “I am as unused to this sort of thing as you, but what I want is this, I think: I want to wake up with you. I want to see you smile. And I would like you to be happy.”

“And if I can’t?” asks Fenris. He is not looking at Zevran, he is instead carefully focused on the wall behind his head. Zevran shifts so that their eyes meet.

“Then I will go. But I think you can.”

“I would not,” Fenris grits his teeth; the words are hard for him to say, “have you go. If you wish to stay, I will be pleased to have you.”

Zevran wants dearly to make a joke at that, but knows it is not the time. He leans forward, hesitates to give Fenris a chance to pull away, and when he does not Zevran kisses him.

“Then I will stay,” he says simply.


End file.
